


Fill our mouths with cinnamon now - Deleted scenes

by lbmisscharlie



Series: Cinnamon [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M, Parenthood, dubious parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two short scenes cut from the final version of <i>Fill our mouths with cinnamon now</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark days

Imogen was unnervingly good at sensing her father’s moods and adjusting her own accordingly. She moved silently through the flat; John only noticed she’d come out of the bedroom when she dropped a butter knife trying to spread jam on a slice of rustic white bread, the only kind Sherlock would eat. Sherlock inclined his head at the sound but ignored it so John got up to help her wash the knife – no knowing what was on that floor – and finish spreading the jam. He poured her a glass of milk as well and told her to let him know if she was still hungry when she was finished so he could get her some proper food. She’d nodded at him, dark, serious eyes closed off, her thoughts hidden remarkably well for a child.

He hated that she’d learnt this: to tiptoe around when he’s in a black mood, to hide away in her room and take care of herself. Sherlock wasn’t abusive; he’d never once yelled at her, hit or belittled her, and no matter how often Sherlock may rage at Lestrade, the Yarders, or even John himself, he absolutely cannot imagine the man turning that temper on his daughter. 

It’s not that he ignored her either – he took notice of every noise and movement, but with effort, as though he needed to remind himself to remember she was there. It was not quite neglect but something near it and if John had anything to say about it, it would stop. 

She craved his touch and his approval; with her, only, he was generous with one and discerning with the other. His rare, true smiles, John noticed, fell to her frequently when she said or did something beyond the pale and she basked in them. 

He had already been laying the groundwork, trying to subtly change Sherlock’s reactions. When Sherlock was frustrated, practically vibrating with tension, angry at himself for his own perceived failings, he tended to lash out, throw insults and sneers heedless of target. John had been slowly directly them toward himself, goading Sherlock, pushing him, snapping questions and making remarks until Sherlock snarled, nasty and cutting and unfailingly precisely angled to make John hurt. John’d long since stopped being shocked by the unpleasant depths Sherlock will trawl to find a weak spot, a forgotten hurt, and could now take his insults blankly, his response little more than patient annoyance and a raised eyebrow.

If that was what Sherlock needed, a dummy, a target, then John was only too happy to step in range, take the bullet. If it got the frustration out of his system so he could restart, think clearly again, then it was fine.


	2. Close Shave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's hands are _very_ capable.

Sharing one bathroom between three people and countless experiments meant that John learned to streamline his hygiene routine. Most days, he shaved swiftly, using a store-brand razor. He took quick, army-style showers and fussed with his hair as little as possible. Some days, though, when Imogen didn’t need to get off to school and he was off work, when Sherlock lazed on the sofa rather than rushing them all off to some investigation, on those days John would pull out his father’s straight razor, the one Imogen had so admired, and do a proper job of it. 

Imogen liked to watch, sitting on the toilet or edge of the tub as he honed and stropped. Always eager to help him foam, she held the mug between her knees and worked the brush with verve, filling the air with the scent of lemongrass and generally producing far more lather than he needed. 

Today, though, Imogen sat on the toilet tank behind Sherlock, who perched on the seat. Imogen’s feet were slung carelessly over her father’s shoulders as they both watched John brush lather across his face. John wasn’t sure what brought Sherlock in that morning, but the interest in his gaze as John went through the usual routine, the way his eyes tracked the razor across the honing stone and strop, his firm grasp as he deftly lathered the soap – with Imogen’s insistent instruction – all made John rather keen to have him watch any time. 

John let out a breath to steady his hand and dragged the razor down one cheek. Beside him, spread knees nearly touching John’s calf in the small room, Sherlock shifted. While Imogen always held her breath at each pass, as if avoiding any noise that would distract him, Sherlock’s breathing sounded heavy in the close quarters as John grazed the razor over his jawline. The room fell quiet as he cleaned the foam off with a damp flannel, then reapplied for a second pass. With, across, against the grain, his father had taught him. Three passes and his skin felt smooth, almost young again.

He cleaned himself up and rubbed some balm across the pinked skin. As he put the balm away, Sherlock stood, reaching for John, and running one finger down his jawline. 

“Meet with your approval?” Sherlock just grinned and tipped John’s chin up, leaning down to meet him in a hungry, almost predatory kiss. Behind them, Imogen scoffed and made a noise of disgust. Laughing, John pulled away, swatting Sherlock’s hands away from his waist. “Breakfast?” he offered.

Imogen jumped down from the toilet, leading the way out of the bathroom. “Waffles, please, John! And sausage!” 

John let Imogen get a bit ahead of them before leaning up to give Sherlock another kiss, this one decidedly restrained. “Why don’t we see if Mrs Hudson wants to give Imogen another baking lesson this afternoon?” He let his hands linger on Sherlock’s hipbones, giving a smile that he hoped conveyed all his intentions. 

Sherlock smiled back and kissed along John’s jawline. “Mmm, that sounds like an excellent idea indeed,” he murmured, lips against skin. He licked the tender flesh beneath John’s jaw, tongue rough on newly-sensitive skin, and John exhaled shakily, tilting his head back. Mouthing down John’s neck, Sherlock explored the ridges of John’s trachea, lips brushing over his adam’s apple as John swallowed. 

John’s hands fluttered against Sherlock’s hips as he attempted to keep control, not to tug their bodies tight together, not to shove Sherlock against the edge of the sink before stripping down his soft, worn pyjamas and pants and taking him in his mouth right there. Not to press bruises with his thumbs into the hollows below his iliac crests and breath in the late-lazy morning smell of him, salty and sour in the crease of his thigh. 

Sherlock sensed his movement and leaned into him anyway, interest hard and apparent against John’s hip. “Fuck.” John’s voice was low, more breath than sound, and Sherlock pressed him back, against the door, until it closed with a click, leaving them alone, alone, alone in the room. 

“I rather intend to,” Sherlock murmured back, and John laughed, and bit his neck, the hard, taut, tempting rope of muscle that stood out when he tilted his chin, lifted his head, turned to look behind to see John always at his back, rather than the soft hollow at the base. 

“Papa!” Imogen’s voice sounded down the hall and through the door, managing to sound both incredibly impatient and hopelessly pleading. “John! I can’t reach the waffle thingie, it’s too high up!” John pulled back, dropping his head with a gentle thud against the door.

“We should – go help, right?” He cracked one eye enough to peer at Sherlock, whose hand still lingered, though somewhat hesitantly, at his waistband.

“That would be – yes,” Sherlock agreed.

“Before she –”

“On the counter –”

“It is on a very high shelf.” John nodded grimly and Sherlock stepped away, closing his eyes as if willing his body to behave. John adjusted himself, trying to ignore the way Sherlock’s eyes tracked his hands, straightened his collar, and reached behind himself to turn the doorknob.

They stepped into the hallway just in time to hear a massive crash from the kitchen.

When they reached the kitchen, Imogen blinked at them, surprised, from the countertop where she still stood on her tip-toes. The waffle iron was in two pieces on the floor, and her lip quivered as Sherlock and John surveyed the scene. 

“I –” John opened his mouth, then closed it. One glance to Sherlock was enough to make them both start laughing. Sherlock helped Imogen down from the counter while John picked up the waffle iron; she looked between the two, bewildered, and John shook his head. “You’re not to climb on the counters, and you know it,” he said, sternly but with a smile. 

“I wanted waffles,” she said, doe-eyed, and John ruffled her hair, still chuckling slightly. 

“Let’s see if we can’t arrange that.” Sherlock was already fiddling with the waffle iron, examining where it had broken.

“John, my blowtorch.” John blinked, then sighed, then went to the hall cupboard to fetch the blowtorch. 

++ 

Luckily, Mrs Hudson had all the makings on hand for a Madeira cake, and “Of course I don’t mind, boys, bring the wee thing down. How long do you need; we could make some biscuits too?” Her wink had sent a flush right up to John’s ears but Sherlock had just smiled his toothy, charming grin, and said, “Biscuits would be lovely, Mrs Hudson.”

The door had just closed behind Imogen and Mrs Hudson when Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist, pulling him close, lips finding the corner of John’s mouth, urgent and pressing. “Upstairs,” John said, “upstairs, upstairs now.” Sherlock grinned against his lips and pushed him into the foyer; they stumbled up the stairs, John’s hands at Sherlock’s lapels, Sherlock’s on John’s hips, touching, touching, always touching.

They fell into the bedroom, John kicking the door closed with one heel. Sherlock grappled at his collar, mouth on his neck, lips desperate. “Layers. Damn –” Sherlock’s voice rumbled against John’s skin. John tugged at his collar – tiny buttons between his fingers, fumbling, clumsy, until – yes – there – the back of his hand trapped against Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock’s mouth searching newly exposed skin while John pulled his shirt open.

“Jesus, John,” Sherlock said, teeth scraping the tender spot behind John’s ear. “Your hands – with the blade – jesus, god, John.”

“You liked that.” John smiled and batted Sherlock’s hands away from his shoulders, shrugging out of his shirt. 

“It’s obscene,” Sherlock said, in the tone he used for unsullied evidence, for a perfect chemical reaction, for unexpected lab results. “The precision, John,” he said, and worried the tip of John’s chin between his lips. He catalogued John’s skin, pink and bared and smooth and new, worked his tongue up over the joint of John’s jaw, across the plane of his cheekbone. He kissed his eyes closed and mouthed the lines that marked the corners of his eyes, the furrow of his brow, the years on his forehead. He mapped John’s face anew.

“I’ve never kissed these cells before,” he said, and proceeded to do so. John waited, and breathed, and tried not to blink, though the brush of his lashes against the ridge of Sherlock’s cheekbones fluttered larger than cyclones, and clutched at Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock’s thumbs pressed against his neck, at the soft tender spots above his lymph nodes, and John swallowed just to feel their movement. Sherlock’s breath came soft and shuddery and he dropped one hand to John’s trousers, working them open, and then – and then – his hands together, one at John’s cock and one at his throat, both stroking, fingertips touching like evidence collection, like John was something new to be learned.

“I – I –” John said, then stopped trying to speak as Sherlock’s mouth covered his, inhaling his words, lips brushing against the smooth skin above John’s lips. Subsumed, fragmented, his body sparking in component parts – skin blood hair cells nerves, oh god, nerves – John pressed against Sherlock, pressure perfect and glorious between them. John’s breath came in short, heady gasps; the air in the room too close and Sherlock’s fingers and lips and tongue, his sense receptors and his synapses, all taking in John’s every bit of data, even the air – oxygen nitrogen carbon dioxide – he exhaled. 

John shuddered through his orgasm and that was data, too, Sherlock bringing his hand up and licking his fingers as John’s knees failed him and he sat, heavy and boneless, on the bed. Sherlock’s eyes stayed on John, piercing and attentive, as his tongue wound around the sticky-wet tips of his fingers, and John willed his eyes to stay open against the overwhelming urge to flutter closed, the urge to let himself fall back and pull Sherlock down with him, to touch and touch and feel the rough wet warmth of his tongue on skin gone cold.

Sherlock grinned, reading the want in the cant of John’s hips and the stretch of his fingers, and straddled him, knees on the bed and weight not-quite-resting on John’s thighs. He kissed him, mouth searching and open and tasting of John, and pushed him back against the bed. 

“Biscuits,” Sherlock said, and John grinned, and reached for him.


End file.
